The Day You Said Goodnight
by C.M. Oliver is eastwoodgirl
Summary: There is a tiny difference between bitter endings and new beginnings. Snarry. Slash. Told in 3 PARTS. Rated for Language. Now COMPLETE!
1. PART I: Changes

**The Day You Said Goodnight**

**A/N: There are simply not enough Snarry fics out there, don't you agree? Here's another of my humble contributions. Fear not, this one is complete. It has three parts but I will be posting one at a time. I am very much open to comments and suggestions for a continuation or a back story –C.**

**DISCLAIMER: You are delusional if you think I own Harry Potter… Oh, that would be me. You would just be plain oblivious.**

**WARNING: Established Slash. Nothing too graphic. ANGST. EWE/ AU (if you want it to be. The song briefly included in part 3 is by Hale.**

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**PART I: Changes**

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Bodies. Sweat-soaked, bare-naked, twisted amongst silken sheets. Hands intertwined, fingers interlaced, pulses beating to the rhythm of approaching war drums. Lips kissing, sucking, tasting, desperate for any point of contact. Tongues twirling, mashing –invading any weak spot for its plundering. Eyes locked, never wavering –emerald seeking comfort in obsidian. Obsidian finding redemption in emerald.

For what seemed like an eternity, in the heavily fortified cocoon that was the depths of the dungeons, nothing but moans, pants and grunts could be heard; bodies slapping, skins rubbing, hips grinding in a desperate need for release –for fulfillment.

It was always like this.

It starts with a simple greeting, then a smile, and then, a brief look. Then a touch, a light one, then it lingers –it stays longer… until it becomes embedded in the consciousness –a part of who they were.

There was no telling of how it would go about after that –it was never the same every time; sometimes it was so stiff, it was almost clinical; sometimes, he could not stop giggling.

But no matter what transpires, one thing was constant.

How it ends…

"Goodnight," a deep baritone whispers in his ears. No matter what time of the day, it was always dark in the dungeons.

"Goodnight," a soft, but decidedly masculine voice gasps back.

Then, sleep steals his consciousness.

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But lately, it happens on the opposite.

"Goodnight," The velvety voice bids him. And before he could even respond, daylight creeps right through his shut eyes.

'Rise and shine, love!" A cheerful female voice quips right next to his ear. "Time to go to work!"

"Go 'way, Ginny…"

"Harry love, you don't want to be late for your first day –"

Harry squints with his eyes still closed. He almost dreaded opening them. But there was no other way. Sunlight assaults his bright green eyes. When did it become so bright in the dungeons?

The, he remembers.

The dungeons were long gone to him.

Nowadays, he slept in a breezy, light-filled room –with white walls, pine furniture, gauze curtains and linen sheets. The smell was floral, airy and sweet.

Harry lets out a barely audible sigh.

"I'm up." And like he has done so many times in the past, he reaches out by his bedside table for his glasses. He puts them on, and his vision clears. When it does, he almost wishes he could've just gone blind completely.

He stares at the pleasant face in front of him.

Brilliant auburn, keen browns light tan and candy pink –at one point he did imagine waking up every morning next to this.

Now he just missed waking up to darkness.

Darkness… Black. Silk. Wool. Velvet. Mahogany. Mint. Sandalwood. Musk. Coffee. Cinnamon –

Spicy. Bittersweet. Dark.

Oh, he could go on and on.

Striking ebony, fathomless onyx, luminescent cream and pale old rose –he slept at night with those in his reveries.

Only in his reveries now.

Like a scripted scene, he goes about the motions of getting ready. He had been doing it for a while now and rarely does anything change; he showers, shaves, brushes his teeth, puts on his navy robes and sits to a table of assorted breakfast items and Earl Grey. He hated Earl Grey. If anyone would ask him, he'd much prefer coffee –an inch of cream, two sugars and a light dusting of cinnamon.

Cinnamon. Not lemon and honey.

But did anyone care to ask?

No. They just assume.

He hated everything, but he went through with it anyway. Not that he had much of a choice.

Choice? Hah! He never knew that luxury.

So, like a good actor, he follows the cues; he smiles in front of the camera –and yet tears up inside when he's alone; he fist bumps with his best mate and kisses his girl; he comforts the broken, when in fact, he is more torn than them he plays the 'hero' act so well –because if not, what else is there to do? He hopes to just let it run through him. And maybe, just maybe, when the director yells 'cut!' for the nth time, he'll get his wish –and fade into anonymity.

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Change can either be good or bad.

It started one day, when he could no longer stand the sunlight.

He charmed the gauze draperies to thick, dark green velvet curtains. She scoffed at the color but did not say anything when he had reasoned out his strained eyes. She bargained. The velvet stayed, but it was now royal blue.

Then, at breakfast.

She put out his usual cup of Earl Grey with a squeeze of lemon and a dollop of honey. He glared at the cup and then sighed.

That night he came home with a French Press, coarsely ground Arabica beans and finely powdered cinnamon in a tin can.

But the biggest change was that one night –he got promoted for a raid gone well and the boys went out to party.

He stepped out of the Floo, woozy, barely holding himself up. A bottle of Firewhiskey has seen to that. He landed I the grate of the reconstructed Potter Manor –into the sight of a glaring young witch. And he thought, that just for that fleeting moment, he was seeing his dead mother –what, with that fiery hair and the hands on those hips.

He felt like a recalcitrant child caught after curfew.

"HARRY JAMES POTTER!"

Merlin, she even sounded like his mother –or what he imagined his mother would sound like, had she lived to see him in this state.

"HOW DARE YOU –"

'_Why, I am a daring, bold and noble Gryffindor, madam,'_

"HOW COULD YOU FORGET –"

'_Forget? How do I forget –when everywhere I go I am constantly reminded of my destiny? My obligations? My LOSS?'_

"OUR THIRD ANNIVERSARY –"

'_Three years? Have I been living this lie for three years?'_

"AND YOU CHOSE TO BE DRUNK? DO YOU EVEN CARE –"

'_Do you?'_

" –ABOUT ME?"

'_It's you, of course. It's always about you… when did it ever become about me?"_

"HARRY! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" He screams, his brilliant eyes ablaze. Lackluster browns widen in response.

"Harry –"

"I said shut up." Forceful, still, but a little quieter now. He rubs his forehead out of habit and makes his way to the kitchen without another sound. He reaches for a cup –but she beats him to it. He peers at the pallid amber liquid she thrusts into him. He moves toward the sink and drains it all up.

"I never wanted this, Ginny."

He could hear her breath hitching, as if making sense of the off-handed statement. He felt no need to correct her. Instead, he grabs a mug and makes his way to the French Press. He charms the water hot –not boiling, just hot –and presses the plunger-like lever down. An inch of cream, two sugars and a dusting of cinnamon –he takes a sip. He sets the porcelain down on the stained oak countertop. His emeralds bore holes into her chocolate orbs.

"I never wanted this."

A blur of auburn and a smack on his face were the only indicators of that particular change.

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**A/N: I had to write Ginny in -it was necessary, but no more appearance for her in the other two chapters. Tenses are deliberate. Other than that, feel free to nit-pick. Thanks for reading and reviewing –Chesca.**


	2. A Note from the Author

SUICIDE NOTE

(Kidding, really.)

**January 12, 2013 3:19 P.M. (GMT +8)**: I apologize to everyone who had been waiting for an update to any of my stories. I had been in and out of the hospital during the holidays and I've only just gotten my internet rights. I have been on a self-imposed writing hiatus as well and that led me to do major re-writes while strapped on my hospital bed. Affected stories such as:** The Last Prince, Never Forget** and **Ashes** will resume posting as soon as I get the re-written chapters up. On the bright side, I have managed to finish one whole new story, **Music of The Night** (Snarry, Rom/Myst; T), with a total of 12 chapters. Posting will begin once I get the others going. Again, I'm really sorry for making/ letting everyone wait. I did not die, nor did I get kidnapped by a hungry space-monkey (although it felt like it) nor did I perish last December 21, 2012 (I knew the Mayans were crazy). I'm currently on a mission to reply to each and every review I've gotten the past few months I was gone so if you are a regular reader, please wait for a personal apology from me... that is if you left a signed review. For those who left anonymous ones... I'll try to post this note on the stuff I'm updating. I just wanna wish everyone a happy 2013... you'll definitely hear more of and from me SOON. Love, C.

**P.S.** If you want a personal apology from me (or even just a shout out) please do not hesitate to leave me a PM or a review. This chapter will be deleted as soon as the next one is up so no haters please. Thank you.


	3. PART II: Shadows PART III: Illusions

**The Day You Said Goodnight**

**A/N: Parts 2 and 3 in one update. Enjoy! –C.**

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**PART TWO: Shadows**

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The pathway was muddy. The rain had been unforgiving and unrelenting for the past few weeks. Come to think of it, it rained when it all started to go downhill for him.

The impressive wrought-iron gates beckon to him from a considerable distance –but it was not to be…

Not today.

Today, he trudges through the muddy path, past the gates, into the village, then even past the edge pf the high street where no one else would dare go.

It appears to him, like a looming shadow of his brief yesteryears; calling him, reaching out to him, haunting him.

There were rumors before. And as rumors, they weren't always true. But this particular one…

He sighs as he pushes past the magical chains restricting passage, condemning the building for demolition. If anyone asks, he was always on Ministry business, inspecting the area.

The mangled wooden front door creaks in the dead silence. The rain has stopped for that late afternoon's excursion, it seemed. He reaches for his holly and phoenix wand and the small area is suddenly aglow.

Everything is as it was four years ago; grimy, dusty, void of life. He replaces his wand in its leather holster –there would be no need for that here. He removes his navy outer cloak and neatly lays it folded on a nearby dusty shelf. He dislodges the top two buttons on his white dress shirt, as well as those on his cuffs. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows as he surveys the small space with a keen eye.

Then, it all comes back to him.

"_**Look at me,"**_

_**He hears the smooth baritone crack, as if it were only yesterday. He wills himself to look… to see..**_

_**He closes his eyes and the shadows appear to him at once; He is transported back in time and space.**_

"_**Look at me –Harry."**_ _**The obsidian begs, the emeralds, unsure, disturbed, afraid. His smaller but secure hands find the larger but uncertain ones. And when he does, he tightens his grip.**_

_**He would not let go.**_

"_**Take them –take them –"**_

_**He does not remove his eyes from him. He releases one hand briefly and touches a proffered vial against the sallow cheeks.**_

_**The vial catches the silver memories.**_

_**His own eyes on the other hand, receives the emotions long-concealed.**_

He opens his eyes.

The blood was gone.

The body was gone.

But he remained, tethered there, for some reason.

Emerald eyes shine with unshed tears.

"Severus," he caresses that dingy wood panel lovingly as if it would convey his emotions to his lost one.

There had been no body to bury when he got back.

He feels his knees lose their strength, the longer he touched that spot –but it wasn't in a bad way. He finds himself down on the ground in no time, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions rushing through his head. He finally mastered Occlumency, but it wasn't like he had wanted to block away the images.

He sits against the wall, the exact same spot where his life left him four years ago –his legs stretched out in front of him, his arms hanging limply by his sides, his chin tucked into his neck. In that position, he opens the floodgate –he finally gives in…

_**Small hands find larger ones in the dark of the dungeons. Ebony hair turns to his jet black counterpart. Emeralds look up for solace. Obsidians provide comfort.**_

"_**You will not be alone, Harry," a smooth baritone assures.**_

"_**Never leave me?" A soft, shaky tenor confirms.**_

_**For a moment, all was quiet –in their own little universe of darkness. Emerald eyes begin to flutter. A few minutes later, soft snores permeated the cold, dungeon air.**_

_**Onyx eyes cast one final longing look onto the lithe body presses against his side. He lets out a deep breath as he gives in to his own slumbering pull.**_

"_**Never, my Harry."**_

_**He tightens his grip on his Harry.**_

"_**Goodnight."**_

Then, almost a ghost of a touch, an unseen hand, a soft breeze enters through one of the many cracks in the walls and caresses his weathered face. He lifts his head up and opens his eyes in silent expectation.

But there was no one there but him.

Fat tears well up in his eyes. His left hand reaches up to his cheek and lingers on the spot that the phantom fingers ghosted on.

"You have to do better than that," he tells no one in particular, almost teasingly. "No amount of touching can make me forgive you. You left me –when you said I'd never be alone."

The breeze graduates into a full-blown wind. And more dark clouds roll in from afar. The sky begins to cry once more. He closes his eyes in response as the teardrops from heaven begin their descent.

"Are you crying for me? Is this pity?"

Lightning drew a violent picture across the sky and thunder roared in its wakes.

"It better not be. I won't take pity from anyone, especially not you –and you know that."

The winds howled louder as the rain drops turned into a curtain of silver bullets. It gets colder inside the abandoned Shack, but the discarded outer cloak remained undisturbed in the dusty shelf. He draws his knees towards his chest.

"All these years, nights have always been the hardest, you know?" He again addresses the invisible audience. "I loved the darkness before –but now, I just want to escape –"

It becomes harder for him to speak after that, his voice breaks as rivers begin to flow.

" –Escape –and –be with you." He finishes in almost a whisper, barely hearing himself as the storm seemed to directly pound on the dilapidated structure. He bows his head and closes his eyes once more. Hours pass by, with him in this position, unmoving, unfeeling, unrelenting. Outside, darkness begins to devour the mortal realm. And after what seemed like a lifetime of silence, that soft tenor whispers yet again.

"Goodnight, my Severus."

And the dreams and shadows consume him yet again.

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The day after, the storm clears up.

He wakes up in the same position he slept in, nevermore disappointed that he has yet again seen through another day.

He stands up, picks up his cloak, careful not to disturb the surrounding dust. He puts it on as he walks out through the mangled front door. It was all too robotic, but what else could it be? Outside this little hideaway, he was almost such –a mere marionette, a puppet –whose strings have long been cut.

He walks a little further and turns back to look. He apparatus away, just as a shadow passes by the front window.

He fails to see it.

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Work has been hell lately.

No one listens to him.

Not his underlings, not his peers, not Ron who has threatened dismemberment for hurting the man's younger sister.

Not the DMLE Head, not the Minister, not Hermione who wouldn't take his sides in his altercation with her husband's family regarding Ginny.

No one listens… come to think of it, when did anyone listen to him? He just notices that now.

He knocks off of work an hour too early. He tips his hat towards his secretary, an eager beaver named Timothy Blanchett, and leaves via the public floo in the Atrium.

He reappears on the other side of the connection, still ungracefully as he had always been. Tom, the barman, eyes him with concern.

"Alright, Harry?"

Never. He wants to say. But how does one explain that Wizarding Savior, Harry Potter, was not okay? You don't.

"Never been better, Tom." He forces a smile. He pauses a bit to transform his cloak into a fashionable trench coat, before he steps out to Muggle London. The door closes behind him as another shadow passes by the farthest table from the entrance.

He fails to see it yet again.

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**PART THREE: ILLUSIONS**

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In Muggle London, he enjoys a few treasured hours of anonymity, where he can be 'just Harry.' NO expectations, no pressure. Just a man going about his day, and going through life like the rest of the world are.

His boot-clad feet carry him to a foreign place; the sun goes down as he stops in his tracks. Bright neon lights dance across his face as he makes his way inside a cavernous but dark sanctuary. The sound of mindless chatter and soft background music usher him in. He makes his way to the bar where a blonde asks him what he's drinking. He settles for a pint of Heineken –he's never had it before. The barman disappears to fetch his order. He relaxes his back against the ledge and surveys the scene with silent, wandering eyes.

The cold bottle gets plunked down behind him even before he could start looking around. He turns, thanks the blonde and takes a swig of the bitter brew before he resumes his watch.

The chatter subsides when he turns around again. The lights dim –all except for one; the spotlight on the nearby makeshift stage. He grimaces. He's always hated the spotlight. The soft music in the background ceases completely and his emerald eyes turn towards the barman in an unuttered question. The blonde smiles at him.

"Open-mic Friday, do you sing?"

He shakes his head and turns his attention back at the stage. Anyone who would dare sing in public, he would hold in high regard.

A man strides towards the platform as the beginning bars of an unfamiliar song reaches his ears. From where he was standing, he could not see the man's face that well, but the performer exuded confidence in his steps –and the way he gripped the microphone –this was no amateur, he could tell. The spotlight garzed the performer's pale face, covered partly by large aviator sunglasses; his hair was inky black and cropped neatly. The rest of his outfit was a forgettable black ensemble: black leather jacket, black tuxedo shirt, black denim trousers, black leather boots –something artists of those days would wear.

He takes another swig of his beer and closes his eyes as the man on the stage begins to sing.

**Take me as you are  
Push me off the road  
The sadness,  
I need this time to be with you  
I'm freezing in the sun  
I'm burning in the rain  
The silence  
I'm screaming,  
Calling out your name**

**And I do reside in your light**  
**That puts up the fire with me and find**  
**Yeah you'll lose the side of your circles**  
**That's what I'll do if we say goodbye**

Emerald eyes fly open as tears begin to fall soundlessly. He fixes his blurry gaze on the singer's strange, covered face.

Only, it wasn't coveredanymore.

Nor is it strange to him anymore.

He drops the bottle of beer he is holding, but no one even notices. They all seemed to be entrances by the deep, smooth baritone issuing from those thin, pale lips by the microphone. Onyx eyes stare back at him from behind long lashes. The rest of him were alien to his sight, but there was no doubting those eyes.

Eyes that haunted him even in his waking moments.

**To be is all I got to be**  
**And all that I see**  
**And all that I need this time**  
**To me the life you gave me**  
**The day you said goodnight.**

He wanted to stand up and walk towards the spotlight –like a moth drawn towards the flame. But his legs refuse to cooperate. Instead, he stays in his stool, eyes wide and lips moving soundlessly. He tries hard not to blink, for he knew that if he did, this illusion would surely disappear forever.

**If you could only know me like your prayers at night  
Then everything between you and me will be alright.**

He must've looked stupid, sitting by the bar, tears flowing freely from his eyes…

But there was no stopping them.

Then, everything starts to fade: the lights, the smell of stale beer, pot and smoke, the warmth of the wooden counter against his cloaked back, the bitter aftertaste of Heineken –now unappreciated in his mouth… the velvety voice that used to make him tingle and moan in excitement and anticipation.

A shadow crosses his tear-stricken face. And suddenly, he collapses in his seat, cold and oblivious to the chaos of the world around him.**  
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"Wake up,"

A feather-light tap on his left cheek ignites his nerves.

"I know it's really comfortable down there with all the gum, dried beer and used tissues, but you really must get up now –"

The sarcastic quip forces his lids open. And just for a second there, he thought that he had died and gone to –wherever dead wizards go to when they pass on.

His hazy emerald eyes refuse to see anything beyond those obsidian orbs.

"Se-Severus?"

The onyx eyes roll exasperatedly just like they were meant to –like they used to.

"Hardly, sir. You must've hit your head too hard." The familiar baritone sighed. "I'd tell you my name if you'd get up off the floor –people are staring."

He shakes his head twice in an attempt to clear off the cobwebs in the crevices of his brain. He begins to push himself off the ground, deliberately ignoring pairs of eyes other than the one directly in front of him. A pale hand extends towards him. He grabs it, and for a moment, he is transported yet again through space and time. He feels himself being pulled forward. He does not fight the sensation.

"Nicholas,"

He swivels his head looking for the source of that foreign-sounding utterance. When he fails to locate it, he gives up and looks on straight ahead. The familiar eyes remain trained on him.

"I said, my name is Nicholas. Are you really that slow or are you just rude?"

There, that biting tone again.

"Ha-Harry," he manages to croak out, still unsure of what Fate and Chance have decided to throw upon him yet again. The grip on his hand tightens and he realizes he hasn't let go yet.

"Well, Harry, I suggest you get going. If you tend to collapse in the most peculiar and uncomfortable of places, then I suggest you go home and see a doctor in the morning."

The man pulls his hand from his grip and begins to walk away. It took three seconds before the sight of the black-clad man's retreating back registered in his mind.

"Wait!"

The man does not hear him against the noise of the crowd.

"Severus!"

Not even a glance in his direction. He takes a deep breath. He would rather not, but he cannot let this chance get away. There was no way in Circe's nine circles of hell that he would let go…

"NICHOLAS!"

A twist, and an eyebrow was raised and directed at him. For a second, he is once again back in the Potions classroom of his 5th year, trying to explain why supposedly navy blue potion turned out to be a violent shade of magenta –simply, he was at a loss for words.

With a deep sigh, he walks towards the questioning glance. He stops at about a foot away. He wants to be closer to him, but just in case…

He stares into the fathomless onyxes and begins to muddle through memories, hoping to find anything that made sense, anything that was familiar, anything that could confirm his suspicions and soothe his doubts…

But five, ten years back into the man's mind, he gave up.

Nicholas was just that –Nicholas. He was not Severus. He never was and never would be his Severus.

He pulls back from the mind assault and sighs yet again. A confused yet familiar (or unfamiliar) face questions him.

"Well, what is it that you need? I haven't got all night."

Suddenly, that biting, sarcastic tone is no longer similar to what has always haunted his reveries. He stares at the man in front of him and for once, looks at him –really looks at him. The eyes remain the same, but the rest becomes strange to his gaze. He then realizes that he was just seeing what his mind had wanted him to see.

There were differences. Subtle, but it was enough. The man he had wanted to see was dead. The one in front of him was just an elaborate illusion –smoke and mirrors.

He forces a smile at the now, strange man.

"I want to apologize for the ruckus I've caused –and thank you."

The man's glare softens.

"Don't mention it," the lips curve into a barely-there smile. "Goodnight, Harry." The man walks away.

For one last time, he lets himself believe that he is hearing those words come out of his beloved's lips. He closes his emerald eyes. The illusions depart him.

"Goodnight, Severus."

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**FIN**

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**A/N: Another story completed! Go me! Please do not forget nor hesitate to leave me a review, a PM or a line at Twitter (at..) ****heyitschesca**** or Facebook as ****eastwoodgirl. **** Until next time –C.**


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